


Truth or Dare

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Daddy Kink, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Restraints, Rimming, Season/Series 03, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is trying to get John to give him what he wants, and ends up getting more than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth or Dare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaitlinFairchild (TristenVictoria)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=CaitlinFairchild+%28TristenVictoria%29).



John appears in the doorway looking wet and bedraggled. Blue eyes sweep the room, and now he looks annoyed, on top of rain soaked and messy.

“What the fuck is this?”

The sitting room is a disaster. Sherlock knows it. Papers strewn everywhere, cups and bottles and wine glasses on every surface. The fireplace was scraped out earlier, and there’s ashes scattered all over the hearth rug, clinging to the legs of John’s chair. John’s tidy pile of books that he stacks with military precision has been knocked over, one book open, the pages bent and curling. Sherlock’s sitting on the floor in the midst of it, dressing gown gathered around his knees, glass of wine in the hand resting on his knee, supremely unbothered by it all.

John hates a messy room.

“I said, what the fuck is this, Sherlock? Huh? I leave you home for four hours to go to  _work_ , and  _this_  is what I come back to?” John throws his laptop bag on the sofa with a growl, and starts snatching up papers off the floor. “What, are we not talking now? Say something, Sherlock, for fuck’s sake.”

“Gavin’s here.” Sherlock’s voice comes out much less clear than he thinks it will, and his brow knits together in confusion.

“Are you  _drunk_?” John’s hands fall to his sides, fists of papers making oddly loud rustling noises. “And who in the bloody hell is Gavin? What  _happened_  here?”

“Hey, John.” Greg Lestrade suddenly appears round the kitchen doorway, looking rather guilty, and also not half as drunk as Sherlock.

“Hi. Greg.” John’s voice has gone quiet and dangerous. A shiver of anticipation unfurls down Sherlock’s spine. He likes when John’s angry like this. It means wrists pinned to the mattress, bones mashed into the wall, curls being pulled hard with John’s teeth at his throat.

Greg looks away, mouth twisting to the side. He’s never been in this flat without John present since John and Sherlock met. Even though Greg and Sherlock had known each other for five years before, it was an unspoken understanding that it was no longer alright for Greg to be here without John. Yet here he is.

“Would one of you like to tell me what the fuck is going on here? Please.” John’s eyes, those beautiful sea blue eyes, are fixed on Sherlock now. Burning into him. The papers in his hands are being rumpled smaller and smaller as the seconds tick past.

Greg clears his throat. “Well, you were...not here. And I needed to talk to Sherlock about a case, and then I got here, and Sherlock and I were looking over the case, and we kind of just decided to open a bottle of wine...and then, another. I’m not really sure what the train of thought was, really...But Sherlock drank more than the rest of us.”

“The rest of us?” John’s breathing out through his nose now, nostrils flaring. “Who the fuck else is here?”

“Hello!” An incongruously cheery Molly appears behind Greg, waving at John. Greg looks down his shoulder at her, a crooked smile on his face.

Sherlock watches as John throws up his hands, working hard to not smile. Damn. He likes it when John is a bit angry. Makes things a lot more intense.

“Anyone else hiding in the kitchen?” John’s eyebrow arches, and he swivels his head to look at Sherlock again. Now his eyes are dark and flirtatious, and Sherlock’s stomach ripples pleasantly. John has so many moods, so many planes and shades to his personality. Sherlock often thinks how wrong people are to think he is the complicated one. Just because John is solid and sandy haired and handsome, they think he’s as simple as his bright blue eyes.

In reality, neither his personality nor his eyes are simple. Other people look at John and see what he does, instead of what he is. He’s stormy eyes, cobalt and steel grey sometimes, and then the calm after, robin’s egg and spring sky. He’s thunder and danger, eyes able to pin Sherlock in place with just a glance, and he’s soft misty mornings, thumbs brushed over eyelashes and murmured endearments against cool pillows. John is fingerprint shaped bruises around Sherlock’s wrists, and guns going off in the dark, sparks flying, just as much as he is tea and biscuits and holding the door open for Mrs Hudson.

He’s a paradox.  

John can terrify Sherlock into submission without saying a word, and make him laugh until his ribs ache, until his throat hurts, and make him come until he’s overloading with dopamine and oxytocin and his mind is blissfully, mercifully blank. John can do all that to him in the span of ten minutes.   

No one has any idea. Sherlock looks dark and dangerous and fascinating, and so everyone assumes he is. That he’s the one to be wary of, that’s unpredictable. People are so stupid.

“Nope! Just us.” Molly chirps, and Sherlock wishes someone would tape her mouth shut. More wine. He takes a long sip, watching John walk into the kitchen, turn sideways to shimmy past Greg and Molly. The way his hips twist to the side ignites in Sherlock’s belly, synapses immediately flooded with the sound of John panting in his ear, his hips rhythmic, muscles undulating under Sherlock’s sweaty fingers.

Sherlock hides the shiver by readjusting his dressing gown and taking a sip of wine.

Molly and Greg settle next to each other on the sofa, a safe distance apart, carefully arranging their legs so their knees don’t touch. Sherlock smiles to himself. It’s so  _obvious_. He wishes they’d just get on with it and stop with the charade. Mmmm. The thought occurs to him that everyone probably felt the same way about himself and John, when they were still dancing around each other, pretending. When John was dating women. Marrying women. Sherlock’s eyes roll automatically. The way John clearly feels about Sherlock’s cock, he had to have been rubbish with women.

John reemerges from the kitchen with a tall glass of whiskey and water over ice. His head inclines at Sherlock and he sinks to the floor next to him. As he folds his legs, his knee comes to rest on top of Sherlock’s thigh. Breath already whiskey sweet, he leans over and puts his lips against Sherlock’s cheek next to his ear.

“If you can’t beat em, join em, right, love?” His lips brush so lightly over Sherlock’s skin, but he shivers nonetheless.

John’s hand lays on his knee, warm and strong, squeezes gently. “So what are we doing? I assume we’re all too pissed - well, except me - to actually look at a case, so…?”

They all stare at each other for a moment.

Molly bites her lip, smiles to herself.

“Oh, spit it out, Molly.” Sherlock swigs his wine, feels John’s fingertips delving into the crease of his bent knee, pressing into the tendon. A warning? Sherlock’s eyes swivel to John’s face, but he’s looking at Greg and Molly, passive. Yes. A warning. Be nice, Sherlock. Be a good boy, Sherlock. Yes, John. For you, John.

Molly is unfazed by Sherlock’s rudeness. She smiles. “It’s silly, really.”

Greg smiles at her encouragingly, prods her arm gently. “I’m sure it’s not. Tell us.”

Molly’s eyes sweep up to meet Greg’s and it’s nauseating, the way they look at each other. Sherlock rolls his eyes again, feels John’s fingers biting into his leg. John’s nose is suddenly against his ear. Whispering so Molly and Greg can’t hear.  “I’m going to wreck you later. Just so you know.”

The pulse of electricity that barrels through Sherlock nearly knocks him flat. John has such an effect on him. No other person has ever had this effect on him. He wants. He wants now, all the time. He can no longer shut it off, not even for a case. He’s pushed John up against brick walls in dark alleys until they both had bruises and friction burns, police lights still flashing behind them. He’s come silently in his pants, John’s hand working urgent and fast inside his trousers, in the back of a cab as John looks out the window in the opposite direction so the cabbie might not notice. They’ve groped and sucked each other in the loo at Scotland Yard, John kneeling on the dirty tile as Sherlock pounded his head into the cold wall. They giggled like schoolboys after, as John rinsed his mouth out in the sink.  

“Truth or dare.” Molly laughs and claps her hand over her mouth.

All three men stare at her blankly.

Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head disbelievingly. “You know. Truth or dare. Haven’t you ever? At a sleepover?”

When they all look at each other, smirking and having no idea what she’s on about, and then back to her, she huffs in affectionate exasperation and takes a large sip of her wine. “Oh, boys.”

“Well, go on, then. What is it?” Greg knocks the rest of his wine back in a single gulp and sprawls back into the sofa, eyelids heavy. Funny. Sherlock always assumed Lestrade was the type to be able to drink anyone under the table, but it looks like he may be out for the count before any of them. Sherlock is oddly disappointed at the idea.

He and John don’t have parties. Mostly because Sherlock hates everyone; but an unfamiliar kind of camaraderie has descended over them, in this darkened, disastrous flat. Fueled by alcohol, surely, but it feels real and exciting. Sherlock doesn’t have friends. This feels like friends, sitting here laughing and drinking, and it’s fascinating.  

“More wine, Lestrade?” He unfolds himself to standing and hold his hand out. He knows there’s a sweet spot of being drunk, usually between a .04 and .07 blood alcohol level, where one can stay awake for quite awhile. Lestrade is probably at about a .03 now, and will just fall asleep. More wine is clearly the answer.

“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks, Sherlock.” Greg’s half closed eyes follow him out of the room as he strides into the kitchen.

John’s voice now, floating round the flat like music. John’s voice is like music, soothing and familiar. Oh. He must be a bit more intoxicated than he thought. Getting a bit sentimental there, Sherlock. He tips the wine bottle against the glass, spilling a little.

“Well, go on then, Molly. Tell us boys about truth or dare.” There’s a smile in John’s voice that’s always there when he talks to Molly. He’s so kind to her, always smiling and trying to make her feel important.

John’s voice is as changeable as the rest of him. He sounds like a schoolteacher on a crime scene, softly encouraging, keeping Sherlock on task. Captain voice when he needs to pull rank, tell someone what to do - it takes on a different timbre, a clipped cadence. John’s voice during sex is mind bending, commanding, soft, tender, loving, everything;  in his ear, rough and growling, “You’re so good, baby, you feel so good...you were meant to have me inside you. That’s it, that’s it, love, harder..oh, god...I could stay like this forever...you’re so beautiful…”

He swallows hard, re-corks the wine.

“Okay, so...it’s a game we played at sleepovers when I was little, right? Everyone takes a turn, and you choose truth or dare. If you choose truth, you have to answer a question about yourself, and if you choose dare, you have to do the dare. It’s silly.” She shrugs, dismissing herself as she usually does.

“It sounds fun, let’s play it.” Lestrade sits up to take his wine glass back from Sherlock and grins at Molly. “It’s not silly. Or, it is, but it’s supposed to be, right? Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Who goes first?” John is halfway through his whiskey and water now, his neck a little flushed, colour on his cheeks. His eyes are so blue, so blue Sherlock can’t believe they’re real sometimes, shot through with rivers of translucent grey. If he licks his lips at Sherlock one more time, Sherlock is sure he’s going to have him right there on the floor.

“I’ll go.” Lestrade pipes up. Oh, just kiss her already. Christ.

“Okay, Molly, truth or dare?” They’re all giggling now. This is so ridiculous for four grown people to be doing.

She bites her lip and grins, lowering her lashes at Lestrade. “Truth.”

Lestrade grins at her, lips red with wine. “Have you ever thought about...you know...with anyone in this room?”

“GREG!” Molly blushes from her hairline to her collar, and hides behind her glass.

“Well?” Greg’s biting his lip at her now. Flirting. Flirting is tedious. Unless it's John, and then it's a promise of things to come.

Sherlock settles back down next to John, closer than he was before, their thighs resting flush against each other. John looks at him, eyes heavy, and smiles slowly. Sherlock snakes an arm around his back and John leans into him. John’s hip against his, the weight of his body; it’s the most real thing that Sherlock’s ever experienced in his life. John makes the world quieter, just by being in it. Waking up to the solidity of John Watson in his bed is a revelation every single time.

“Want a sip?” John shakes his now almost empty glass at Sherlock, eyes focused on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Sure.” Sherlock takes the glass, tips it. The ice is stuck at the bottom in a frozen lump. As the first drop of whiskey hits his bottom lip, John’s fingers are tracing the outline of his cock in his trousers.

“John!” He hisses, dribbling whiskey down his chin.

Molly and Greg are still negotiating her answer, verbally pushing and pulling at each other. Sherlock tunes them down like a radio, their chatter merely background noise.

John’s smile is deadly, sparking a sweet buzz of heat in Sherlock’s belly and groin. He dips his head, nudges that perfect swooping nose into Sherlock’s shoulder. Drags it up to Sherlock’s ear, whispering against his neck, “Just a preview. Oh, look at you. Getting a little...obvious...there, aren’t you? Better adjust that dressing gown.”

He smirks and retracts his hand, leaving Sherlock to breathe heavily and try and cover the hardness between his legs.

“Well...I guess all three of you. At some point or another I’ve thought about it…” Molly looks mortified, Greg grins wolfishly, and John looks at Sherlock and laughs.

“You HAVE? Molly. I would never have thought…” John laughs and raises his glass at her as if he’s toasting her. “Well, ta, love. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

The game goes on, John, then Sherlock, then Greg taking their turns. John dares Sherlock to eat something out of the fridge that he can’t identify, everyone howling with laughter as Sherlock closes his eyes and gags a bit. John’s in one of his moods where Sherlock’s actually a little frightened to not do exactly what he tells him to. John walks a fine line between tender and thunderous, and he’s edging towards the storm. Sherlock doesn’t dare disobey him, especially in front of other people.

The drinking goes on, as well. Wine, whiskey...Sherlock keeps being sent into the kitchen to fill more glasses. John's killing an entire bottle of whiskey by himself.

John’s all over him, in John’s unobtrusive way. Outwardly calm. Hands snaking into secret places, teasing, fondling. His finger insinuating under Sherlock’s arse, pressing into the tight knot of flesh where Sherlock is so sensitive. Sherlock barely holds back a moan, while John doesn’t even break eye contact with Molly. He pushes and circles his fingertip, and arousal pulses through Sherlock’s lower body, making his arse and his thighs clench. John bites his lip gently, the corner of his mouth ticking up, and Sherlock wants to smack him for how calm he can be when Sherlock can hardly restrain himself around John. They waited so long, so very long. Sherlock wants - needs - John every second.

The game goes another round.

Sherlock’s turn.

“I dare you to...kiss Graham.” This seems like a wonderful idea. John won’t actually do it, of course. Sherlock just wants to see John squirming for once, trying to get out of it. It’s so rare he can make John uncomfortable anymore. He knows he’ll pay for it later, but maybe the storm threatening in John’s eyes will have calmed by then. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip and watches John’s reaction.

Molly starts giggling uncontrollably, tips sideways on the sofa with her legs curled up. Greg barks out a laugh and shakes his head. Molly’s toe pokes into his thigh, and his eyes dart to look at where their bodies are touching - just tiny point of contact making the world fall away. Sherlock knows exactly what that feels like.

John’s eyes are boring into him, purple black like a deep bruise, blonde lashes twitching. There’s a challenge there that Sherlock didn’t expect, a steadfastness. He grins and licks his lips, pink tongue rolling slowly. When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly. “Well, a dare’s a dare.”

Apprehension spreads through Sherlock’s chest like spilled ice water. His internal organs are cold. His brain is cold, synapses freezing mid spark. John is still leveling that stare at him. Greg is sputtering and turning pink. Molly is giggling harder, rolling on the sofa holding her arms across her stomach.

“What?” It’s inelegant. It’s the best Sherlock can get out at the moment.

“Yeah. What?” Greg is red as an apple, stark contrast to the silver hair.

John shrugs, looking outwardly amused. There’s something extremely dark behind his eyes, though, and Sherlock knows he’s about to be given a lesson in John Watson’s limits. “Just a kiss, right? Why not? Come one, Greg, don’t be silly. It’s nothing.”

“You can’t.” Sherlock feels like he can barely speak. My John. Mine. That's the only thought pounding through his mind. “It was just...I was joking.”

“Joking doesn’t suit you, Sherlock.” John’s voice is gun metal, cold and hot simultaneously, brimming with danger. “If it’s just a joke, the kiss will be a joke, too. Nothing to get upset about. But we have to go through with the dare, right, Molly? That’s the rules of the game, yeah?”

Molly tries to catch her breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. She rocks up to half sitting. Sherlock wants to knock her on the floor for suggesting this inanity in the first place.

“Yes. I mean, you chose dare, you have to do the dare.” She’s giggling through half of it, lurching from side to side. Wine sloshes onto her hand as she takes a sip. God, she’s useless sometimes.

“Well, then.” John uses Sherlock’s knee to push himself up. In a few quick strides, he’s crossed to the sofa. “Budge over, Greg.”

There’s no air in the room. Sherlock can’t find any words as he watches John insinuate himself between Greg and the end of the sofa. He turns and looks at Sherlock with a half smile on his face, those absurdly long lashes fluttering at him. “Just a joke, right?”

Goddammit.

Greg is looking less apprehensive now, more...interested. Why has Sherlock never noticed how enormous his eyes are? How deep in colour? Outlined in thick black lashes. Why is he noticing that now? Because they’re focused on John. HIS John.

This is worse than seeing John with Mary. Because then, then John hadn't belonged to him, and he hadn't belonged to John. He didn't know the exquisite feeling of John moving inside him, John's sweaty body arching underneath his hands, the peace of his head resting on John's thighs as they watched telly, the gentleness of John's fingers threading through his as they walked home after dinner. Now, now he knows, and seeing him with someone else...it's nauseating, it's terrifying.

They have all had far too much to drink. Molly’s stopped giggling. She’s backed away from Greg and John, as if to give them, what? Privacy? Whatever for? This can't possibly be happening.

John considers Greg’s face for a moment, as if trying to sort out how to begin. There’s something more at work here than a quick brush of lips. There’s an intensity to his expression that’s all too familiar. Sherlock curses himself. He should know by now that John won’t be manipulated, won’t be pushed in certain ways. This is his punishment for trying. His reminder that John bends to Sherlock only when he chooses to, and no other time.

John licks his lips again, and Greg mirrors him. A slow smile spreads across John’s face. Greg smiles back. Their eyes are locked. Molly has become a statue, perched on the edge of the sofa, staring. Sherlock’s chest is heaving, heart thrumming out of his chest. Pounding out mine, mine, mine, mine with every pulse of blood through his ventricles. He is suddenly a sober mind in a drunk body, his jealousy as clear and sharp as ever, but his mouth doesn’t work, and he can’t get up quickly enough to put himself between them.

John’s hand is suddenly tipping Greg’s chin up. Greg’s eyes are wide with surprise, but they’re also black and burning. He wants this now, Sherlock can see it. Their eyes are falling shut, noses touching. There’s a soft meeting of lips, just a peck, really. Alright. Dare done. It’s over. Sherlock waits for the relief to flood into his belly when they stop.

Yet they don’t stop. John is pulling Greg’s bottom lip between both of his, and Sherlock knows precisely what that feels like. The suction of John’s mouth, the gentleness with which he exerts pressure. John’s hand is sliding up to cup Greg’s jaw, and Greg isn’t stopping him. Instead, he’s moving forward, a hand sliding onto John’s knee to brace himself. John hums approvingly and tilts his head to the side. Sherlock sees the flick of a tongue before it’s enveloped by Greg’s lips.

Sherlock breathes out, raspy and choked. “Stop. That’s enough. Stop it.”

John’s eyes open marginally and slide toward Sherlock’s, his eyebrow arching. Irises blue black like the London sky, and Sherlock wants to lose himself in them, wants John’s face pressed up against his, bare skin rubbing. This is free falling. He feels like the floor has given way underneath him. John’s eyes fall shut again, and as he leans into Greg’s mouth, a little moan escapes him.

Sherlock grinds his teeth. He’s doing this on purpose. This is a lesson.

Finally John pulls back, but it’s far too intimate and lingering. He rubs his nose along the length of Greg’s, draws his thumb over his lower lip, and Greg catches the tip of it in his mouth. John’s mouth goes into a little ‘o’, and then his lips fall open as he watches Greg’s tongue lapping over the end of his thumb. He darts forward again, meeting the tip of Greg’s tongue with his own. Greg’s mouth ticks up in a smile and his tongue curls around John’s. Then they’re licking at each other, not even kissing. Just...licking each other’s tongues. Eyes closed, heads swaying, and John’s thumb is still passing over Greg’s bottom lip rhythmically.

Molly is still frozen, watching John and Greg with something close to rapture.

“This is far enough. Joke’s over.” Sherlock’s regained his voice somewhat, but no one is listening to him. It’s suddenly as if John and Greg are completely alone in the room. “I said, that’s enough.”

But John’s throwing a leg over both of Greg’s, arching his back and taking Greg’s face in both of his small hands. Cradling it. Just as he’s done with Sherlock a thousand times. Soft palms, rough fingertips, the permanent dent in his trigger finger - Sherlock knows every centimeter of those hands, how they feel on his face, wrapped around his cock, knotted together at the small of his back with John breathing softly against his neck while he sleeps. Those hands are Sherlock’s. They’re not to be touching anyone else.

Molly’s hands are over her mouth, her wine glass tipped over on the floor.

John’s fully in Greg’s lap now, straddling his thighs. What the fuck is he playing at? They’ve never - never - considered anything like this. Just once they had a conversation, lying naked in their darkened bedroom, John gathered in Sherlock’s arms with their fingers entwined against John’s belly.

_“That was amazing.”_

_“It was rather.”_

_“I love you, you know.” John had twisted his head back so they could kiss. “I never need anyone else.”_

_“Of course you don’t.”_

_John had laughed. “And so modest, love. Some people do like it...sharing, bringing someone else in to spice things up.”_

_Sherlock had balked. “We don’t need any ‘spicing up’. We have plenty of...spice...and you are not for sharing.”_

_“I know. You’re not either. I wasn’t suggesting it, Sherlock. Just talking.” John’s tongue had swept over Sherlock’s lips tenderly and he’d wriggled back into Sherlock’s body, tucked his feet between Sherlock’s calves. “You’re all mine, love, and I'm all yours, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”_

That was the extent of the conversation about possible threesomes. Dismissing the possibility entirely. Yet now here is John in Lestrade’s lap, wriggling and arching over to catch his mouth and Greg’s arms are coming around John’s back. No.

No. This is not going to happen.

Molly’s shifting now, whether with arousal or discomfort, Sherlock can’t decide. Probably both. His own arousal is making itself known; watching John’s arse wiggle and bounce on someone else’s lap is devastatingly hot, no matter how much he wants it to stop.

Before he can even formulate a concrete thought about it, he’s slinking across the floor to the sofa, chest at John’s back, warm wine soaked lips at his neck. He slides his fingers over Greg’s at John’s hips, and pushes them away, replaces them with his own. John’s hips are muscled, firm, from the army, from running all over London with Sherlock. He knows what they feel like snapping hard against his body, knows every ridge and ripple in his pelvic bones. Fingers gliding over them, recording every bump and dip, in long grey mornings spent worshiping each other.  There’s a freckle on John’s left hip, 2 centimeters in diameter, that Sherlock has centered right at the bow of his upper lip, and kissed and kissed in the sweaty afterwards, both of them mumbling _I love you, I love you_  as they fell asleep in twisted sheets.

No one else touches these hips.

John’s sighing, leaning his head back into Sherlock, tilting, exposing his neck to Sherlock’s mouth. Muscular neck, thick, strong. Short blonde hairs tickle against his nose. Sherlock wants him so badly, he can’t stand it. Teeth scraping along John’s jugular, he wraps his arms around John’s waist and pulls him backwards.

He thumps down, harder than Sherlock expected, right on his tailbone on the floor. “Ow, bloody hell! Sherlock, what the fuck?”

John’s angry. John’s eyes are flashing at him, which would normally quail him into submission, but John’s mouth is red, kiss-swollen, stubble burn across his chin, and the flare of jealousy inside his chest swells and bursts over him. He grabs John’s biceps and drags them together.    

“You’re mine. I’ve had enough, this isn’t funny, John.” He crushes his mouth to John’s, immediately tasting blood, fiercely biting at his lips, hands winding into his hair.

He expects John to pull away, to protest, to yell at him, but he doesn’t. Instead he flips himself onto his hands and knees without breaking the kiss and crawls into Sherlock’s lap, wrapping his legs behind Sherlock’s back. There’s heat and hardness pressing up against Sherlock’s stomach, and John hitches those perfect hips forward, making them both groan.

“That’s what you get when you push me. You know that. Don’t push me, you won’t like the result. You didn’t like that, did you?” John snakes his hand between them, pressing into Sherlock’s hard cock, making every muscle in his lower body tighten. There’s a smile on John’s lips, an acknowledgment of their game. “Did you, baby?”

“No, I hated it.” Sherlock breathes out, panting against the side of John’s head.

“You.are.in.so.much.trouble.” John murmurs between kisses, ravishing Sherlock’s lips, pulling them into his mouth, biting them, as he rolls and arches relentlessly. “You haven’t been a very good boy today.”

A coil of tension releases through Sherlock, warm and soothing. Oh. Yes. This game. This is what Sherlock's been wanting ever since John came home, since before he even left for work.

John’s taking over. John’s telling him what to do. John’s paying him attention and no one else. He doesn’t always need this, but sometimes he needs it more than breathing, for John to be in charge and let Sherlock just become the transport for a while. John always knows when he needs it, when he deserves it. His back arches involuntarily, and John’s comforting hand slips into the hollow, steadying him, pressing them closer together.

He swallows, tilts his head back as John moves down his jaw and starts sucking a bruise on his neck. “I haven’t?”

“Mmmm-mmm.” John hums into his throat. “You’ve been such a bad boy. You had Greg in when you know you aren’t supposed to, and you wrecked the flat. I’m going to make you clean it up later, you know. On your hands and knees.”

A delicious twist of fire burns down through Sherlock’s belly into his cock, making it jump against the fabric of his pants. He can see John now, sitting calmly in his chair, reading, while Sherlock slinks around, scuffing his trousers and making his knees ache, and cleans up his mess. John will be so pleased with him when it’s all done. The thought makes him shiver with pleasure. He makes John angry with him on purpose so that he can relish the feeling of forgiveness that comes later. And the sex that always comes first.

“Oh, yes, John, yes, I will. I’ll clean it all up. I’ll be good.” He’s completely forgotten Greg and Molly are even in the room; his head spinning with pleasure and drink, John’s hands now inside his dressing gown, John’s cock against his stomach, hot tongue searing a trail up to his ear.

“I know you will be. You’ll be my good boy.” John pushes his dressing gown off on the floor, eyes passing over his chest appraisingly. He hums, flitting his hands lightly all over Sherlock’s tee shirted torso. “You’re going to be my good boy right now, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s so aroused, he can’t sit still, squirming and canting his hips up toward John’s, looking for some kind of relief from the state he’s in. John could talk him into coming, when they’re playing this game. He has before, sitting by the side of the bed, telling Sherlock what a good boy he’s being, how smart, how clever. Sherlock not being allowed to touch himself, to do anything to physically release the pressure. John’s blue eyes searing into him as he writhed and nearly sobbed with how much he wanted to wrap his hand around himself and just COME.

“You’re my spoiled little soldier, aren’t you? Daddy treats you so good, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, please, yes.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but he just wants, so badly.

John slides smoothly back off of Sherlock’s lap and back up onto the sofa. Greg and Molly are pressed hip to hip at the end of the sofa, and Greg’s arm has fallen into her lap. John wonders if they even notice, they’re so entranced by watching Sherlock and John’s little game. John’s eyes flick down to Greg’s lap, and his very obvious interest in the proceedings. Molly’s red faced and and biting deep into her lip.

Licks his lips, meets Greg’s eyes, then Molly’s, finally Sherlock’s. There’s not a single person in this room that wants to back out now. He has no idea how they took it this far, and they’ll probably all be horrifically embarrassed come sobriety, but at the moment none of that seems to matter.

John clears his throat. Sherlock’s still in his semi subspace on the floor, staring at John with a docile expression rarely seen on his features. Aqua eyes round and expectant. Waiting for Daddy to tell him what to do. That thought alone makes John have to swallow hard and suck in a deep lungful of air. He has to adjust himself inside his jeans. God, he would fuck him right on this sofa, without even asking Molly and Greg to leave.

He clears his throat. “So. Are we still playing truth or dare?”

Molly sputters and shakes her empty wine glass that she’s retrieved from the floor. “I think we need more alcohol if we’re going to keep going like this.”

“I couldn’t agree more, pet.” John grins at her and she blushes. He’s never once thought of Molly that way, never. She’s sweet and gentle and smart, and not at all his type, even when he was more into women than men. Which, admittedly, seems in the distant past. Yet...she looks lovely and drunk, flushed and soft...well. He wouldn’t say no...and with a bit more wine, he might actively say yes. “Sherlock. Be a good boy now and go get us some drinks. Go on then.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock gets up obediently, if a bit on the wobbly side, and takes Molly’s glass.

John leans back in the sofa and lets his head roll to the side to look at Greg. He was kissing him a few minutes ago. Strange. He never even found Greg all that attractive, although, objectively, yeah, he’s actually quite fit. Never noticed that before. Greg’s smiling at him somewhat shyly.

“So, that was...kinda...weird.” Greg finally voices, shifting his eyes away from John’s face.

John feels loose limbed and incredibly turned on. He could probably seduce anyone right now. He reaches up and thumbs over Greg’s lower lip, making his breath catch. “Mmmmm. I wouldn’t say it was weird.”

Sherlock reenters the sitting room with a wine bottle, John’s glass filled with whiskey and water and ice, and some mugs on a tray. He takes one look at John touching Greg’s face, and his own falls into a furious pout. “John. No. I don’t like that.”

John shoots him a warning look, but without much heat to it. He’s too relaxed to really feel angry. Anyway, Sherlock looks good enough to eat; that kissable, soft, lower lip stuck out, his eyes huge and round. John takes his hand off Greg and waves Sherlock over. “Come here, my clever boy. You did what Daddy asked, good job. Come here.”

If Molly or Greg find John calling himself Daddy strange, they’re keeping silent about it.

Sherlock comes over and hands everyone drinks, and allows John to gather him into his lap, wrap his arms around his waist. He’s still hard, Sherlock can feel the heat pressing thick and lovely into his hip. He’s so weak with desire, he would do anything John wanted right now. Anything.  

John pats his hip lightly, and smiles up at him with affection beaming out of his eyes. “See? When you behave, you get what you want.”

Sherlock ducks his face into John’s neck, laps gently at the soft skin under his ear, nuzzling his nose into him. He can feel the blood pumping, how hot John’s skin is. “Not everything I want, John…”

“Don’t be cheeky, or Daddy won’t play with you later. Understand?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” It shouldn’t make him feel so good, he knows it shouldn’t, being ordered about like this, having John treat him like a child. Yet sometimes, it’s balm on a raw soul. He’ll be good, and John will talk to him sweetly until he’s writhing with need, and then John will fuck him slowly and pull on his hair, whisper against his neck how good he feels and how he loves to fuck him. He’ll leave finger shaped bruises on Sherlock’s wrists that he can covet for days, remembering every time he sneaks a look at them how John felt moving inside him.

He never belonged to someone before John. No one had ever wanted to own him. But John did. And Sherlock wanted it, craved it. He wanted John to make him eat, and take baths, wanted him to force water on him at four am when he hadn’t slept or eaten in two days because of a case.

Once they started sleeping together, Sherlock wanted to be possessed that way too. He wanted John to leave marks all over his body, love bites and bruises and scrapes from his fingernails. He wanted John to tie him up, restrain him, not let him come, make him beg to be fucked until he was crying for it. John was very unsure at first, he hadn’t done things like that before. He was timid about it, didn’t want to hurt Sherlock or change the nature of their relationship outside of the sex play. The first time Sherlock called him Daddy, he came immediately, clawing at Sherlock’s shoulders and biting into his neck.

_“I think you have a bit of a kink, too, John.” Sherlock had smiled as John panted against his throat._

_“Apparently.” He’d gasped out, running his fingers up and down Sherlock’s sides._

_“Good thing yours and mine line up.”_

_“Yeah. But...not every time. Just sometimes.” John had kissed his neck and mouth, laying on top of him until he got soft and slipped out. “Daddy...I have never had anyone call me that.”_

_“But you liked it.” They’d curled up face to face, holding hands against Sherlock’s chest, and looking into each other’s eyes._

_“Yeah. I’d say that’s an understatement.” John had leaned in and nipped at Sherlock’s lips, smiling and sated. “Okay. You proved your point, genius. We can try some of that other stuff you’ve been suggesting, too. I’m game.”_

Now, John’s fingers are kneading gently into Sherlock’s hip, and he looks down into those indigo eyes. They’re sultry and soft, looking at him with undisguised desire.

“Give me a kiss, you gorgeous creature.” John tilts his chin up, and Sherlock bends forward until their mouths meet. John’s immediately delving in between his lips with a hot, exploring tongue, digging his fingers hard into his hipbone. Sherlock melts into the kiss, his entire consciousness focused on the tongue twirling around his own, the roughness of John’s stubble against his chin and cheeks as they kiss more deeply.

Molly clears her throat, and John pulls back with a smile. “Sorry, Molly. He’s so  _distracting_ , isn’t he? My lovely little brat. Wasn’t it someone’s turn?”

“Yes. Mine.” Sherlock pipes up.

“No, darling, you just went, remember? Be a good boy and let someone else have a turn.” John’s hand is between Sherlock’s thighs now, his thumb just resting against the curve of Sherlock’s balls, not moving it, just there. Sherlock’s entire body is throbbing with need. He tries shifting his hips a little, into John’s hand, and John shoots him a staying glare. “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock hangs his head, suddenly realising if he pushes John too much, he won’t get anything but a reprimand tonight. “Sorry.”

“Behave.” John pinches the inside of his thigh, and Sherlock squirms, his balls drawing tight to his body and his arse muscles clenching. He could come at any second if John just gave him the tiniest bit of friction. But he won’t, not yet. He’s going to make him wait. “Greg, I think it’s your go.”

“Yeah, okay...um. Okay, Sherlock. Truth or dare?” Greg looks nervous. He’s not sure what’s going to happen tonight. The sexual tension in the room is thrumming between all of them.

Sherlock looks at John for permission. John nods encouragingly and takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Go ahead, sweetheart, you can play the game. You don’t have to ask me every time.”

“Okay, John.” John’s hand strokes up and down his back and he’s calming, breath slowing. This is good, this place, where John’s not going to let him misbehave, but he’ll take care of him, tell him what to do, what to feel. It's freedom, when John takes control of him. “Um, truth.”

Greg smiles and bites his lip. “When did you know you, you know, loved this one?” He juts his chin at John, and they exchange one of those blokey grins that Sherlock never can quite emulate.

“The minute I saw him. When he walked in, and our eyes met, and I loved him right then." Sherlock’s reeling a bit now, head foggy and thick from drink, but he can remember with perfect clarity the moment that John walked into that lab, leaning on his cane. He looked sad and broken and beautiful, and Sherlock immediately wanted to make him whole again, fix all the broken parts and put a piece of himself inside of John forever.

He can feel John’s eyes on him and when he looks down to meet them, he’s surprised to see how full of emotion they are. John’s mouth is doing strange things, pursing, lips wobbling slightly. Sherlock draws his head back, tilts it to the side, confused. John smiles at him, eyes no longer stormy and commanding, but gentle and brimming with affection. Sherlock smiles back, and John’s hand comes up to thumb over his lips.

Drawing a deep breath, John turns slightly to Greg and Molly, eyes sliding right to stay fixed on Sherlock’s face. “Right then. Game over. I need to take this one to bed. I can’t take my eyes off him at the moment. You lot are welcome to stay. My old bed in still upstairs, bedclothes in the closet. We can have a fry up in the morning if you’re still here. I can’t guarantee we’ll be quiet. Goodnight.”

“Come on, you.” John nudges at Sherlock to stand up, and Sherlock scrambles off John, quick to obey. He’s not really sure what’s happening right now, and he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to ask. Greg and Molly are gaping, confused by the sudden change in mood. John’s hands slide into Sherlock’s and they lean against each other. John smells like whiskey and soap, and Sherlock wants to taste every single centimeter of his epidermis, lick John’s cells into his mouth, absorb them into his body.

Johns nods at Greg and Molly, all affable politeness, as if he wasn’t in Greg’s lap thirty minutes ago, licking inside his mouth. Sherlock’s still silent, unsure whether he’s allowed to go back to their normal way of being. John’s hand is warm and dry in his, palms locked together like cogs made to fit only with each other.

John pulls him down the hall, into the bedroom, closing and locking the door firmly.

When he turns to look at Sherlock, standing there quietly, his hands held behind him and his eyes fixed on the floor, his heart swells and splits open. “Sherlock. It’s okay. You don’t...I don’t want to play that game right now. I just want you back. I want the man who apparently fell in love with me at first sight. I don’t want any games or kinks or any of that...I just want you.”

Sherlock trusts John, implicitly, he would let John do anything to him, and sometimes he finds it difficult to come out of that obedient space. He feels a shiver of nervousness. John steps forward and placed a hand on the side of Sherlock’s face.

“Hey…” he said, voice tender and low, “Hey. Please come back to me. I know our games are fun, but I just want my Sherlock back, okay?”

John ducks his head to look up into Sherlock’s downturned face, his blue eyes searching and soft. Touches his lips to Sherlock’s so very gently. Sherlock kisses back slowly, head swimming as his eyes fall closed. John’s tongue flicks at his lips, asking for entrance, and Sherlock parts them willingly. John kisses him without urgency, but deeply and full of emotion, tongue lapping against Sherlock’s slow and purposefully, cupping his jaw and stroking his fingers along his throat.

Sherlock realises he’s holding his breath. He lets it out in one long, wavering gasp. John pulls back, his index finger circling the helix of Sherlock’s ear. “Darling. Are you here?”

“Yes, John, I’m here.” He leans forward and slides his hands up the strong curves of John’s chest. “I’m very drunk, but I’m here.”

John’s face splits into a happy grin, his hands covering over Sherlock’s. “I am too. God, I am so drunk. I  _kissed_  Greg...Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that? That's going to be right embarrassing tomorrow."

The laughter bubbles up from deep inside, and Sherlock’s suddenly doubling over with it. He catches John’s eye, the laughter contagious, and soon they’re both stumbling with laughter. Sherlock careens over to the bed and falls across it with a thud as the laughter subsides. John lands somewhat more gracefully beside him, and rolls over to tuck his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“Did you mean it? What you said?” John isn’t kissing him. It’s just his lips moving against Sherlock’s neck as he speaks, but the thrill that shoots through Sherlock is as powerful as if John’s sucking a hard love bite out on his skin. He's not laughing at all anymore. John's fingers trail over Sherlock's chest, grazing over his nipples.

He tries to think. What had he said? John’s fingers are deftly maneuvering inside Sherlock's pyjama bottoms now, flicking open the button on his pants. He can’t think like this… “What did I say, John, I can’t remember?”

John laughs softly, slipping a hand inside Sherlock’s unbuttoned pants. Fingertips brushing over Sherlock’s length, thumb rubbing lazily at the slit. Sherlock’s trembling immediately. “You said you loved me the first minute you saw me. Did you...did you really?”

“Yes, of course. Didn’t you love me the minute you saw me?” Sherlock would sound offended if he could, but John's rubbing him with a flat palm now, and his brain is drowning in endorphins.

“Oh, Sherlock. Jesus.” John’s voice is so full of love that it almost hurts. Then he’s crawling on top of Sherlock, bodies so flush together that Sherlock can’t breathe, and that’s fine, that’s good, because it’s John and John could take his breath, he wouldn’t care. John could smother him, choke him, press a thumb into his windpipe until it collapsed, until black spots swam in his eyes and he passed out, and it would be beautiful.

But he doesn’t. He sweeps his lips over Sherlock’s and breathes whiskey sweet into his mouth, resting their foreheads together. “I loved you before I met you. I was waiting my whole life for you, Sherlock. I waited years for you, waited out death for you. I had no idea...no idea you felt the same. You never said…”

“I didn’t think I had to.” Sherlock’s slides his hands down over the smooth planes of John’s back, to the curves of his arse inside his jeans, and squeezes, grinning when John arches and moans quietly. “I thought it was obvious how I felt about you.”

“Oh, baby, it is, it is...I just...hearing you say that…it's the biggest turn on.” Then John is kissing him, hot and wet, laving his tongue over Sherlock’s jaw, finding his mouth and sucking on his lips. “God, I want to be inside you.”

Nerves singing, tingling from head to toe, Sherlock can’t even open his mouth to talk. He tries, and a breathy whimper is all that comes out through slightly parted lips. John can do this to him, render him speechless, thoughtless, shut down the incessant noise in his mind. John can turn him into nothing but the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears, the throbbing of his cock, the need to arch and rub and taste.

John is already inside him. Every minute. Every second.

John's knees bracket his hips. He pushes up to kneeling, hands roaming possessively over Sherlock's chest, the look in his eyes both devastatingly affectionate and blazingly wanton. That tongue that John never can keep in his mouth for very long, darts out and wets his lips. He holds Sherlock in his gaze, eyes more grey than blue in the yellow light from the bedside lamp. "I want to make you come, baby."

Simple words. Just seven simple words.

They penetrate Sherlock right to his core. John wants him. Always wants him. Wants him angry and stroppy and petulant, wants him brilliant and clever and confident, wants him laughing and breathless and giddy. Always wants him. The only person who ever has.

“John, please.” Sherlock tries to press his hips up, but John’s thighs have him pinned. A hungry pant escapes him as he struggles to move.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by John. His lips curve into a deadly smile, and he leans forward, hot breath against Sherlock’s jaw. “Oh, it's like that now...You want me to hold you down, baby?”

Sherlock can barely get out a nod, so dizzy with drink and desperate with want. John shifts his legs, moves up so he can slide both hands up Sherlock’s arms and press them above his head. John’s hands are small, but strong. He can easily hold down both of Sherlock’s arms with one hand. Sherlock writhes under him, cock twitching. It’s been all night. It’s been hours. The pressure inside is becoming undeniable. He's desperate for some kind of friction. 

“Not enough? You want more than that?” John’s tongue laps at his earlobe, his voice husky with desire, and Sherlock can’t hold back the whine in his throat. “Oh, you do...alright then.”

John abruptly lets him go and sits back on his heels between Sherlock’s spread legs. He rubs his hands along the insides of Sherlock's quivering thighs, ghosting his thumbs over his testicles, but avoiding touching his cock. Those achingly long eyelashes flutter at him, John’s face contemplative, half a smile playing on his lips. “You’re so beautiful. All mine. My perfect little brat, my good boy. My clever, brilliant, wonderful man. You’re all those things to me.”

“John…please.”  Sherlock can’t take it much longer. He wants John on top of him, inside him, holding him down, putting bruises on his arms and his neck. He needs it. He needs to be taken. The need is coalescing into a bubbling knot of anxiety in his his stomach.

“Oh. Oh, baby, you need it so badly, don’t you? I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise.” He leans back over Sherlock and grabs his wrists, presses his thumbs in between the bones and holds him tight. The shudder of relief that passes through Sherlock is palpable. John’s hips hitch up in response, he lets out a hard breath. “That’s what all this was about. The messy flat, Greg and Molly here, the drinking...you just wanted me to be angry with you. Didn’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, too lost in the sensation of John’s fingers digging into his flesh. The urge to fight when being held down, the inability to do it, the strength of John’s weight pressing him into the bed - it’s bliss. It’s transportive. All the complexities in his mind dissolving, giving way to the simplicity of John on top of him.

“Answer me.” The commanding tone is back, John’s fingers tightening around his wrists, thumbs into his tendons. Oh, god, yes. This.

He swallows, trying to get enough breath to form words. “Yes, John.”

“Baby, you don’t have to make me angry for us to do this. You can just tell me.” John breath is rapid in Sherlock’s ear, and he’s hard, so hard, pressing into Sherlock’s stomach. He kicks his hips forward just a little, a soft moan in his throat as he does. “You want me to get out your restraints?”

“John, yes, oh god, please…” The emotions that have been plaguing him all day are threatening to burst through, overwhelm him. He needs to John to make this go away. This is what he's been aching for for hours.

“Okay, baby, okay. Shush. I’m going to take care of you now. Just shhh. I'm here now.” With a gentle kiss to the soft skin under Sherlock’s jaw, John sits up and starts moving off the bed. His voice changes, still quiet and calm, but stern now. “Take your clothes off and lay back down. I’ll be right back.”

As John disappears into the bathroom, Sherlock scrambles up to do what he’s told, relief flooding through him at John’s commanding tone. He stands up slowly, peeling off every piece of clothing and making sure to put it in the hamper. John hates clothes left on the floor.

He’s on the bed, docile, eyes closed, arms already spread wide above his head, when John returns, dangling soft leather cuffs from his fingers. The mattress squeaks and dips as he climbs onto the bed.

“Oh, you are a beautiful sight. Just waiting for me, like you’re supposed to.” One warm dry hand slides up from Sherlock’s ankle, over his calf, and the muscles of his thighs, rubbing over his stomach and chest, until he reaches Sherlock’s wrist, and he fastens the cuff around it with care. He tugs on it, makes sure the buckle won’t slip, and secures the other end around the post of the bed. He climbs over Sherlock’s stomach and silently fastens the second cuff, then runs his hands down Sherlock’s arms.

Finally, Sherlock lets out a long breath, one he feels like he’s been holding for days. His arms reflexively pull at the restraints, a thrill of arousal and relief mingling together in his belly.

John stands up and takes off his own clothes, drops them in the hamper, and comes to the end of the bed, eyes roaming all over Sherlock’s body. “Christ…you are gorgeous. The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. You’re even more gorgeous when you’re begging for it, aren’t you? Do you want to beg for it, Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes, please.” The tightness in his groin now is almost unbearable. His hips are moving of their own accord, seeking out any kind of friction, release. He’s been hard for so long, it hurts.

“Stop thrashing.” John puts a stilling hand on Sherlock’s thigh, thumb biting into his tendon. “I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll forget your own fucking name, but you have to be patient. Be my good boy and you’ll get what you need. I always know what you need, don’t I?”

“Yes, John...oh god…” His shoulders are starting to ache already from the angle, his neck tensed.

John knows. John always knows. Calmly, he folds a pillow and tucks it under Sherlock’s neck. “Better, love?”

Sherlock nods, and gets a hard pinch to his stomach. John is looking at him with a furrowed brow and an expectant look in his eyes. Nodding won’t do now. “Answer me.”

“Yes, John.”

“That’s my boy.” John licks gently over where he just pinched, soothing and gentle. He kisses down Sherlock’s stomach, his mouth loose and wet. “God, I could lick you all over. I want to. Lick you everywhere. Every.square.centimeter. of you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Yes, John.” Just answer. Just feel. No need to think or worry, or be anxious. Just John’s tongue, hot and hungry. John’s fingers, firm and strong. Nothing else matters. He never understood, until John, how the transport was connected to the brain work. He thought he had to repress, never feel. Now he understands the power of release, the quieting of his mind when John's fingers are inside him and his mouth is on his cock.

John slides his hands around the backs of Sherlock's thighs and rolls his lower body nearly in half, shimmies down until he’s laying on his belly. ‘I know you’re so close baby, and I know you want me inside you, but you need to be ready for me or it’ll hurt. Not in good way.”

“If you do that, oh, god, I’ll come, I’m so close, John…”

“You’ll take what I give you and you’ll not come until I allow it.” John shoves a pillow under Sherlock’s hips and tightens his grip on his thighs. There will be blooming purple bruises tomorrow. Sherlock’s entire body convulses at the thought, his curled fists yanking at the restraints. John slaps his thigh, hard. “Stop that. You can move, but you’re not allowed to pull like that, understand?”

“Yes, John. I won’t again, I’m sorry.” The sting of John's hand against his skin lingers. Maybe there will be a mark tomorrow. Sherlock shivers at the thought of the impression of John's hand on his leg.

“I know you are.” John slides one hand up Sherlock’s thigh, over the curve of his arse, and touches a fingertip to the ring of muscle where Sherlock is far more sensitive than most. He circles his finger, pressing in gently, feeling the muscle give way. A moan rips from Sherlock's throat, cock jumping. “Beg, Sherlock. Beg for it. I know you want to.”

“Please, please, John...I want you inside me.” His words are choppy, breathless. It’s taking so much focus not to come. He looks down at himself, at the blonde head between his legs. His cock is flushed maroon, the head wet. He’s throbbing everywhere, blood pumping through him so hard his heart hurts.

“Mmmm. You want my cock inside you?” John’s voice is mischievous, but Sherlock knows any cheeky answer will earn him a slap or more.

“Yes, I want your cock inside me, please.” Sherlock’s nearly sobbing with it now, tears leaking down the sides of his face and dripping off his chin. “Please. I need it.”

“I know, baby. But first…” The tip of John’s nose skims along the Sherlock’s arse, “You have to be ready.”

John’s fingertip withdraws, replaced by the wet heat of his tongue. Sherlock shouts, hips jumping, electricity crashing through his body. The tip of John’s tongue inside him now, lips pulling and sucking at his skin. He’s kissing Sherlock there just as he would kiss his mouth, passionately, deeply.

“John...your mouth, oh god…” He’s yanking at the restraints like he isn’t supposed to, but he can’t help it. This is so good, and he’s so painfully hard, every instinct inside is to touch, pull, let it out.

There’s a creak from the floorboards upstairs. Greg and Molly are in John’s old bed.

John pulls away, presses closed mouth kisses to Sherlock’s arse, his thighs. “They can hear us. They can hear every groan, Sherlock, every time you shout my name. They can hear what I do to you. You like that? Mmm?”

“I...yes…”

“They can hear that you’re all mine, baby.” John’s licking him now, all over his arse and thighs, darting his tongue inside, Sherlock contracting around him. A flat tongue passes lightly over his perineum, presses against the back of his testicles, and he shouts out again, he can’t help it. “Oh, yeah, that’s it. Make some noise, you beautiful thing.”

John kneels up, gently puts Sherlock’s legs back down. High colour on his cheeks, his mouth wet and puffy.  He leans forward, kisses Sherlock without hesitation. “Can you taste yourself? God, you taste so good, baby. I love to put my tongue inside you.”

“John, please…” Wrapping his legs around John’s back, trying to pull their hips together, the restraints biting at his wrists. If John doesn’t get inside him immediately, he’ll die. He can smell him, musk and sex and sweat, a vague lingering scent of John’s deodorant. He needs every bit of him, their cells intermingling. “I need you, please...”

“Oh, fuck, I need you, too. You’re so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. I don’t tell you enough.” John lays on top of him, blue eyes soft and glowing, fingertips wandering over Sherlock’s face. “You are perfect. I love this little wrinkle...right...here.”

John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s brow, the top of his nose.

“And this lip.” A gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lower lip.

“And these amazing eyes.” Lips touched gently to Sherlock’s eyelids.

“I want you all the time. I want to touch you, and hold you, and fuck you...Because you belong to me, don’t you, Sherlock?” John kisses down his neck, tongue drawing little circles on Sherlock’s fevered skin, reaching into the bedside drawer for the lube.

“Yes, I belong to you, John, I do.” Sometimes he just needs to say the words, to hear it. John knows he does. After all they went through to get here, Sherlock still finds it hard to believe sometimes. That they belong to each other, that John loves him unconditionally.

“Yes, you do. Do you want me to show how you belong to me, Sherlock?” A flat hand, slicked with lube, rubbing over his hole, two fingers slipped inside. John presses as deep as he can with short fingers, spreads them apart, stretching and thrusting. John is so good at this. Back arching, panting out fast breaths, Sherlock’s spiraling toward orgasm without John even touching his cock. John slaps his arse lightly with his other hand. “Answer me, Sherlock.”

“John...I can’t. I can’t even think, please…”

“Alright, love. Alright. You’re doing so well. So good for me, sweetheart. Put your legs up, there we go.” John kneels, pressing his cock up against Sherlock's hole, breaching inside just slightly, and all the breath leaves Sherlock’s lungs in a rush. “Breathe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, relaxing enough for John to thrust forward and in with a low groan. One hand reaches up, fingers twining in Sherlock's curls, and yanks. Pleasure spirals down Sherlock's spine, rippling though him as John pulls harder, tugging his head back. “Oh god, baby. You feel amazing. You were made for me to fuck you. Your body was made just for me to be inside. So tight, love, so tight, Jesus...”

Sherlock is nothing but nerve endings, every cell of his body singing with John filling him up. They fit together truly like they were built to do just this, every ripple and fold of flesh slotting together perfectly. Their bodies compliment each other as perfectly as their hearts and minds always did.

“Oh, god. I want to take you so hard, Sherlock.” John’s voice is all breath, words punctuated by the snap of his hips against Sherlock’s arse, and a sharp tug on his hair.

“Take me. Please, take me, John, I want you to.” Yanking against the restraints, spine curving, heat coiling in his belly, Sherlock’s head is spinning. He can’t hold on much longer.

"You're mine, Sherlock,  _mine_."

"Yes...yours, John. Yours." 

John immediately speeds up the rhythm of his hips, those perfect hips, fingers jabbing into Sherlock’s waist. “Yeah, baby, oh god, I love you so much…”

John’s body contracts, shoulders rounding forward, with a long stuttering gasp against the side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock turns his head, seeking John’s mouth, and their lips and teeth collide, tongues sweeping against each other messily. John suckles on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, pulling it between swollen lips, and lays flat, hooking his hands around Sherlock's shoulders.

“John, can I? Can I, please?” Sherlock’s cock is sliding between their sweaty stomachs, and it’s too much. His entire body is quaking with the effort of not coming.

“Oh, god, yeah, baby, come for me. Come for me now, my beautiful creature, that’s it…” John slams into him and holds his hips, the sharpness of his pelvic bones pressed into Sherlock’s flesh.

Given permission, Sherlock lets it go, what he’s been waiting hours for, and it’s overwhelming. His back arches so sharply that his muscles cramp, pain mingling beautifully with pleasure as all the blood in his body rushes to his groin and then floods so fast through the rest of him that he’s momentarily suspended in time, in space, body taut and trembling. It lasts forever, this moment, and he’s coming and coming, hot between their undulating bodies, shouting John’s name. Contracting and tightening around John’s cock inside him, ankles hooked together at the small of John’s back.

“Oh Christ, Sherlock...don’t stop, love. You feel so good, fuck, fuck...” John bites into Sherlock’s lip, his own orgasm uncoiling in his spine, lightning crackling through his neurons. He presses Sherlock into the bed as his back goes concave, everything electricity and white heat.

John rolls relentlessly against Sherlock’s body, drops his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder as he succumbs, body stiffening, shouting hoarse and raw against Sherlock’s skin. Testicles drawing tight, he's pulsing into Sherlock, the flood of hot liquid rushing back over him as he continues to pump his hips. “I love you, I love you, oh god, baby…”

Finally, John falls still, hips rocking to a stop. He breathes out, collapses against Sherlock’s chest. They shiver against each other, through the aftershocks, John gently mouthing at Sherlock’s neck. “Better?”

“Mmm…” Sherlock hums weakly, utterly destroyed.

“Everything quieter in here, sweetheart?” John taps Sherlock’s temple, kissing his jaw and cheek.

“Yes. Thank you.” Sherlock breathes out, nuzzling into the side of John’s head, breathing in John’s shampoo and sweat, the scent intoxicating even after.

“Good.” John kneels up, unbuckling the restraints and gently massaging Sherlock’s wrists as he does. “Your wrists okay?”

“Yes, John. I’m fine.”

“Just checking. I need to get us cleaned up. I’ll be right back.”

John bounces into the bathroom, a spring in his step, and Sherlock smiles in sleepy satisfaction. He must fade out for a few minutes, because suddenly John is there again, already wiping Sherlock down gently with a warm wet cloth. He tosses the cloth in the hamper, and stretches out beside Sherlock, his body still radiating heat.

“Come here, love.”

Sherlock can barely move, limbs so heavy, brain so quiet and drowsy. John’s arm snakes behind his back and rolls him, pulling him close so Sherlock’s head is over John’s heart. The steady thump of which lulls Sherlock closer to sleep.Their legs tangle together, John’s hand skims up Sherlock’s back, ends in his hair, twisting the sweaty curls around his fingers.

“Sherlock. I’m sorry I kissed Greg. I shouldn’t have done that. I would never...there’s no one else for me. There never has been. There never will be. It was just drink and ridiculousness, and I’m truly sorry. Alright?” John’s lips press against the top of his head and his arms tighten around his shoulders.

“Alright.” Sherlock can’t help the waver in his voice, though, and John’s arms squeeze him again.

“I’m terribly sorry I made you feel unsure. I won’t make that mistake again, alright? I promise.”

“Alright.” Sherlock nuzzles into John’s chest, sated, barely awake.

There’s a beat of silence, and just as Sherlock’s fading into a peaceful unconsciousness, John’s voice sounds in his ear.

“God, tomorrow morning is going to be awkward as fuck.”

***

The morning dawns rainy and chilly, rivulets drawing foggy patterns on the window. John comes slowly to consciousness, stretching and twisting as much as he can with Sherlock’s weight thrown across his stomach.

He can hear voices low and murmuring in the kitchen, and is momentarily alarmed. Then Molly’s tinkling laugh sounds, and it all comes back in a rush. Kissing Greg, practically fucking Sherlock right in front of both of them.

Oh my god. This is going to be the most uncomfortable breakfast of his life.

"Wake, up, baby. I'm not doing this by myself." John nudges Sherlock, prods him with stiff fingers, swollen from too much alcohol and not enough sleep. "Sherlock. _Wake up_."

"Mmmmm." Sherlock's hum is annoyed. He rolls over with his back to John and curls up.

"No, seriously. I am not facing Greg and Molly by myself. _Get up_."

The smell of brewing coffee finally rouses Sherlock, who is, of course, not embarrassed in the least. 

They finally emerge from their bedroom, finding Molly and Greg seated at the kitchen table, beakers and burners pushed to the end. There's a full breakfast laid out, and four mugs of coffee. The three of them exchange very bashful grins, while Sherlock shrugs and pads across the kitchen to claim his coffee. 

"So." John looks up at the ceiling.

"So." Greg bites his lip and takes a sip of coffee.

"Oh, boys, my goodness. Didn't you ever do any drunken snogging at a party before?" Molly laughs and then immediately flushes red when John and Greg stare at her. "Oh. Did you...not? Oh. Well...anyway, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Have a kipper, John."

"Molly Hooper. You are full of surprises." John laughs as Sherlock hands him a mug of coffee. 

She shrugs, eyes twinkling. "I guess girls just have much more adventurous slumber parties than boys do."

John and Sherlock exchange a smirk. "Oh...I don't know about that."

 

 

 


End file.
